You're a What?
by Farsight020
Summary: When a familiar Death Eater threatens a young Muggle, he gets a different reaction than he expected. As do Voldemort, the Obliviators, and Cornelius Fudge. Now added: Hannah and her Meeting with the Savior of the World. Pure Humor. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Sadly, despite having been a Harry Potter fan for many years, I only today realized how truly ridiculous the name "Death Eaters" is. After thinking this, I of course resolved to write an entirely humorous, somewhat pointless __fanfiction__ making__ fun of the name. Who could resist? Anyway, none of the world of Harry Potter is mine and none of these characters is technically mine. Also, I mean no offense. I'm just having some fun to relieve the stress of a very long, very hard school week. Enjoy!_

What?

_I'm late again, _Hannah thought. _Why am I always late?_ She pelted down the sidewalk, weaving around other commuters travelling in a like manner. Dodge and weave was the rule when one was late. She glanced at her watch again and sighed. She would have to take the shortcut again. And she was so fond of that shortcut—who wouldn't love a dark, dirty, odiferous alley that made one shudder from a strange feeling of oppressive evil (and don't ask her what gave her that feeling because she really had no idea). Still, it shaved about five minutes off her morning walk and she needed that time this morning. Sighing again, she made the turn into the alley—only to run full tilt into a man in a long black dress? Robe? Whatever it was, they definitely didn't sell it at Brooks Brothers.

"Excuse me," she said.

"Watch where you're going, _Muggle_," he hissed after her.

She had to stop. Late or not, he was just being rude. "Excuse me?" she asked, annoyed.

"What?" he asked. He seemed insulted that she would dare to talk to him.

"Excuse me," she repeated, "It _is _the traditional response when one runs into someone. I said it. You didn't. Therefore, you are being rude. _And_, as if that weren't enough, you proceeded to refer to me as a Muggle, whatever that is." In fact, she did know what that was, but she wasn't about to tell him that her college roommate and best friend was a witch.

Now he was really mad. In fact, he was so mad, he pulled a stick of wood out of his cane and pointed it at her. "Do you have any idea what I am? I am your worst nightmare."

"You are?" she asked. She could never resist a bit of sarcasm in the face of danger. "I knew it! You are the giant pumpkin with a sword that led the army of orcs that chased me to the Dunkin Donuts and tried to eat me and my donut!"

"What?" he asked, seemingly dazed, before snapping back to his threatening mode. "NO! I am the Death Eater who is going to wipe your filthy Muggle blood off this Earth for good!"

She couldn't help it. She snorted. That statement was far too ridiculous.

"What?" he asked. It seemed to be his favorite phrase.

"You're a what?" she asked, barely containing her laughter.

"A Death Eater," he replied, as he approached menacingly—or tried to approach menacingly.

"A Death Eater?" she asked, incredulous, "Who came up with that name?"

He didn't answer, merely sputtered.

"I mean, honestly, is that supposed to inspire fear? What do you do, eat death? Because, really, that just implies that you lose a lot." She was full out laughing now.

"Laughing at the Dark Lord is punishable by death!" he exclaimed.

"Which you will then proceed to eat?" she asked.

He sputtered again.

"Seriously, your Dark Lord needs to hire a better publicist, if that name was all he could come up with. It's not even melodramatically cheesy, like _The Wraiths of Doom_ or something equally crazy. It doesn't even make sense! Death Eaters?" Laughing hysterically, she turned and walked away, hurrying on to open her coffee shop a little late for another day of business.

Lucius Malfoy remained where he was for several minutes, completely stunned. His mouth opened and closed several times as though he were about to reply to the long gone woman, before it closed and set into a very thin line. With a swirl of robes, he turned and stalked away, determined that no one would ever find out about this particular incident.

He kept it very secret. So, naturally, within a few days, everybody knew.

Even wizards and witches who had once trembled and shook at the phrase _Death Eaters _couldn't stop laughing.

_A/__N Note__Lucius__Malfoy__ is probably over six foot. The friend who I based the character of Hannah on is 4' 11''. For those of you using the metric system, she is what one would refer to as tiny and he is very tall. I'm sure you could figure that out, but it never hurts to clarify. Anyway, since this was primarily a conversational piece, I did not stick that in. However, I think it adds something, don't you? __Because I have this mental image of him quaking in fear._


	2. Meeting Lord Voldemort

Hannah had finally made it to her coffee shop and unlocked the door when yet another man in a robe appeared directly behind her. Well, "man" was a loose term. He was tall, quite possibly over two meters, and had a snakelike face with slits for nostrils. He was dressed in black and an air of oppressive evil followed him as he walked toward her.

"Filthy muggle, how dare you insult my Death Eaters!! For that, I shall teach you the true meaning of fear."

Hannah rolled her eyes. Evil villains and their clichés. Honestly! Creativity clearly wasn't his strong point. "And you are?" she questioned.

He raised his arms so that his robes swirled melodramatically. "I am Lord Voldemort."

She couldn't help it. For the second time that day, she burst out laughing. "Is that of French orgin?" she asked between giggles.

"What?" he asked.

"Is your name meant to mean something like "flees from death" or is it just some crazy anagram that you made up when you were a pathetic angry teenager?"

His red eyes blazed in fury. How dare this muggle mock him!

Regardless, Hannah continued. "You clearly have some left over issues from your childhood that you need to sort out. If you want, I can give you the number of a good psychiatrist who can help you."

"I do not have issues," he responded.



Hannah nodded sympathetically. "Of course you don't. Just remember, the first step to recovery is admitting that you have a problem."

"Filthy muggle! You should be quaking in fear. I am Lord Voldemort!!"

"Apparently you also have serious issues with your publicist. Like I told your flunky earlier, you really need a new one. I'm not quaking in fear because of a man with a ridiculous name," and she turned and entered her shop, closing the door behind her. The villains in stories went by names like Sauron, Morgoth, Mordred, Torak, Azash, even Darth Sidious—all sufficiently ominous and intimidating names. Why on earth would she fear a man who went by a name as ridiculous as _Voldemort_?

Behind her, the "man" central to her thoughts stood, mouth agape, in the middle of a busy London street.


	3. Hannah and the Obliviators

_Here it is! For everyone who asked, I present another chapter of "You're a What?" Special credit should be given to my roommate the Greek and Latin major—she was a huge help in this chapter!_

Hannah had finally made it into her coffee shop and started brewing the first pot of coffee as she almost simultaneously tapped the requisite passwords into her computer/cash register. She had been late already and now with her two wizardly run-ins was even later. Her regulars were already showing up, and she was not even near being ready to take their orders. Thankfully, they were regulars and more than willing to wait. Even if they were unable to, they were very polite about it and she knew that they would be back tomorrow. After all, her coffee shop, and she, had a good reputation, and one late day would not spoil it. Still, when after a bit of running around, she was able to take the orders, she felt relieved. It wouldn't do to keep the regulars waiting for too long after all. Within an hour, she had managed to open up her shop completely (fastest time ever!) and deal with most of the morning rush. Finally, it had quieted down, and she was able to take a few minutes break, already eager for the day when her extra help (a college student named Meghan) returned from holiday. Suddenly though, her few minutes of peace were broken by what sounded like a number of gunshots.

She jerked up from the stool she was perched on to find five men in dresses looking at her with sticks in their hands. "Can I help you gentlemen?" she said, picking up the French press on the counter.

The first man pointed the stick at her. "_Obliviate,_" he said. A light shot towards her, but was instantly blocked by a judicious move of the press (that of course looked entirely unintentional—I mean was entirely unintentional).

"No, I'm sorry," Hannah said, used to rude orders, "I've never heard of that drink and unless you can give me a fairly detailed recipe or description, I'm afraid I can't make it. I can look it up and have it available by tomorrow though."

"Foolish muggle," the man said, "I'm a representative of the Ministry of Magic and I'm attempting to wipe your memory."

One of his companions punctuated that comment by yelling again, "_Obliviate!_"

The beam on light that shot from his wand was once again blocked by a slight movement of the press, this time as Hannah gestured wildly in anger. "How on Earth do you intend to wipe my memory? By using very poor Latin? Shouldn't you be using _"oblitera"_? I think that the meaning of that is much closer to what you are looking for." As she lectured them on their despicable Latin, she continued gesturing with the French press in hand, conveniently blocking and reflecting everything they sent towards her—entirely unintentionally of course.

Just then, another customer stepped through the door, the bell immediately alerting the idiots with sticks who began firing spells at her as well. The customer immediately dodged under the table, plugging her ears to drown out the constant shouts of _obliviate_.

Now Hannah was really upset. "There's two of us now. It should be _obliterate_. And that's pronounced oh-blih-ter-ah-tay, not "obliterate". Would you like me to write it down for you on one of my chalkboards? Would that help?" Still they didn't stop. The French press was as busy as it ever been, blocking spells right and left. What was even more amazing was the fact that as the French press blocked every spell, Hannah had written every tense of the Latin verb _obliterare_ up on one of the chalk boards she generally used for menus. She continued lecturing, unaware that by the time she was three tenses into her lecture, the Obliviators had left, unable to bear anymore Latin.

When she finally turned around and noticed they were gone, she smiled. The Latin always got them. Then she returned the French press to the counter, and brewed another pot of coffee. It was time to continue on with the day.

The Latin she left on the board. After all, it never hurt her customers to learn something while they drank their coffee.

_Later on "You're a What?": Hannah meets Minister Fudge!_


	4. Hannah and Cornelius Fudge

_A/N: Herein Hannah meets Cornelius Fudge and deals with him—with a little bit of help._

Breakfast was the busiest part of the day in Hannah's coffee shop (even busier than the early morning rush). Between the people desperately hungry for one of her pastries, the people desperately needing a cup of tea before work, and the zombies stalking in through the door in need of their first coffee (for their sake and the sake of all society), there was never a moment when Hannah's shop wasn't thrumming with activity. But all the activity stopped when the man in the purple pin striped suit and bowler hat stepped through the door, briskly marched to the front of the line (which was, as always at this time, quite long), and removed his hat. "Miss Cook," he began, before she cut him off.

"There's a line," Hannah said, pointing to the back of it.

He ignored her. "Miss Cook," he said again.

"Seriously, there is a line," she said, pointing again to the back of it. By now, her customers had begun to mutter, irritated.

"Miss Cook, I am the Minister of…" he looked around nervously, "Miscellaneous Artifacts Gained in Crusades. I do not go to the back of lines."

"I'm sorry, you're the minister of what? Never mind, it doesn't matter. That man," she said, pointing to one of her zombies, "is the Prime Minister of England and he does go to the back of the line." Sure enough, five places back in line stood the zombie-like Prime Minister, surrounded by his bodyguards. After all, Hannah's coffee was easily the best in London, and she did not deliver—to anybody.

"Miss Cook," the idiot began once again, "I am Cornelius Fudge and I need to discuss with you the events of this morning—in private, please."

Hannah couldn't believe this man. She gestured to the packed coffee shop around her. "Does it look like have the time to discuss anything with anyone right now, much less in private?" she asked grumpy. All these interruptions this morning had thrown her for a loop and she was going to let this idiot know exactly how she felt about that! "All morning long, you people have been keeping me from running my business with your bad French and your bad Latin and your stupid names and your egotistical ways. Now let me do my job and GET TO THE BACK OF THE LINE!"

He sighed and pulled out a stick. "I'm afraid I have no choice, Miss Cook," he said, smugly satisfied that she would be unable to stop him using his magical stick powers. "Imper…" he didn't finish the word, having been simultaneously hit by a flung coffee pot and two red lights from two of the Prime Minister's bodyguards. Needless to say, Fudge collapsed, though whether that collapse was caused by the large bruise on his forehead from the coffee pot or the red spells, Hannah couldn't tell. Anyway, she was too busy mourning the loss of her favorite coffee pot to Cornelius Fudge's rock hard head to really care.

The two ministerial bodyguards, with sticks still drawn, approached the fallen Minister of Miscellaneous Artifacts Gained in Crusades carefully. They looked down at him to verify that he was in fact unconscious (the shorter one confirmed this with a kick) and then looked up at Hannah. "Sorry about that, Miss Cook," the taller one said. He was blonde and very tall, a definite contrast to his dark, short and stocky partner (who, it should be noted, was still taller than Hannah). "We'll take care of him for you." He shot a silvery shape out of his stick that took off through the door of the coffee shop—by now, of course, most of the customers were starting to wonder from what kind of tree these sticks were coming. It wasn't clear what kind of response he awaited, but some moments later an owl flew in the door to the darker man. Now Hannah was really upset. She had no objection to owls personally, but she had to think of the health standards! Luckily, the man had been in Hannah's shop often enough to sense the impending explosion. He grabbed the note tied to the owl's leg quickly and shooed it back out the door. The owl too must have sensed the danger, because it left quickly without protest. The dark bodyguard read the note before passing it to the blonde. He too read it before nodding and putting it into the pocket of his suit (he and his companion, unlike the other men with sticks, wore Armani). Blondie leaned over and lifted the idiot minister off the floor, placing a red coffee stirrer in his hands. Fudge groaned as he closed his fingers around it, just beginning to return to consciousness. "Sorry, Minister," Blondie said, "but we need our coffee too." He muttered something quietly and then stepped back as the purple clad man disappeared into thin air.

His partner, meanwhile, had been going to each person in the coffee shop and murmuring something softly. He now moved toward Hannah, only to stop in fear when he caught sight of her scowl and dual armament of coffee pot and French press. He quickly stepped back and placed his stick out of sight, as did his partner.

Hannah nodded and began to lower her weapons, only to stop when she saw Blondie's hand twitch toward his sleeve. "Don't even think of it," she warned, raising the French press.

"I wasn't," he said quickly.

"Didn't think so," she said, returning to the customer whose coffee had been long delayed by Hannah's unexpected idiotic visitor.

"I don't suppose that since we got rid of Mr. Fudge, we could…?" the dark one asked, gesturing toward the front of the line. Hannah didn't even bother to dignify that with a verbal reply, but merely pointed distractedly to the line as she focused on mixing a latte for a customer. "Should have known," Darkie muttered to Blondie as they returned to the Prime Minister's side. "Not even God Himself would be able to convince Hannah to let Him cut the line."

"God, maybe," Blondie replied, "but certainly not Cornelius Fudge."

_A/N: And now I'd like to stick in a bit of a note in response to an anonymous review I got after the last chapter. While you're right in saying that "Vol de mort" means "Flight of death", it also means "Flight from death". I double checked with someone who speaks French, and as I suspected (as in Spanish) de means both from and of. If there is a native speaker who would like to correct me on this, I would be more than happy to hear from you, as I don't speak French at all, and my friend who does is not a native speaker, although extremely proficient. Thank you, anonymous reviewer, for your review though._

_I would also like to remind people, as we are several chapters into this story, that it is really not meant to be logical. That is why the Prime Minister is in Hannah's coffee shop. Just enjoy it, for all of its ludicrousness. _


	5. Hannah and the Savior of the World

_Sadly, everyone, we are reaching the end of "You're a What?" This is the second to last chapter. The last is very short and already typed. It will follow shortly. But fear not! The adventures of Hannah will continue in a yet to be written one shot tentatively entitled "When Hannah met Dumbledore and Umbridge". Until then, adieu!_

That evening, during that time of day when only the truly caffeine addicted can even stomach the idea of coffee, a young man walked into Hannah's shop and perched himself on a stool along the counter of what Hannah referred to as her "coffee-bar".

"What can I get you?" Hannah asked, eyeing the black haired, green-eyed boy. He looked depressed and tired and desperately in need of caffeine.

"I don't know," he replied, "I've never had coffee, but I think it's time to start."

"I'll just get you plain black then," she said, handing him a mug. "You look like you need someone to talk to more than you need coffee anyway. So." She said, perching herself on the other side of the counter with her own cup of decaf coffee (caffeine for someone four foot eleven at eight o'clock at night was never a good idea), "talk."

He sat for a moment, staring at his cup of coffee like he didn't know what to do with it, before picking it up and taking a sip. He puckered his mouth at the taste and looked as though he had every intention of spitting it out before gulping it down. Alas, even Hannah's coffee could not appeal to those poor souls who were born into this life destined not to like coffee. Ah well, at least his growth would not be stunted. He hesitated again, before taking another sip (or perhaps it would be stunted).

"Talk," Hannah repeated.

Finally, he broke. "I go to the same school as my parents did and everyone expects me to be just like them. They're constantly comparing me to them, and while I love hearing about them, I do, because I never met them, I would like to be myself every so often. I want to be Harry, not Lily's boy or James' boy or the Savior of the Whole Bloody World!"

"Savior of the World?" Hannah asked.

"They expect me to carry them all and I'm hardly old enough to carry myself. And this after they leave me with my relatives who hate me each summer!" the boy—Harry—exclaimed.

"So don't let them," Hannah said.

"What?" he asked.

"Don't let them ride you. Ask them to stop—or switch schools."

He frowned pensively into his coffee. "It's not that simple," he said.

"Make it simple," she replied. "Don't let them destroy you—get out of the situation."

"It would take a lot of catch up work," he said quietly, faint glimmers of hope in his eyes.

"You have all summer," Hannah said. "Catch up, switch schools, go to university."

"What would I read?" he asked. The hope was becoming brighter and brighter.

"What do you enjoy?" Hannah asked.

"I used to love math—and history," he replied shyly.

"So read math or history or economics or even economic history," she said. "People will push you and you'll push yourself, but the stress of it will be your choice and you'll be able to achieve goals that you set for yourself."

"Economic history," he repeated, before springing up. "Thanks," he said, reaching into his pocket.

"It's on the house," she said. "Now that I've gotten you addicted there's sure to be repeat business."

"I'll definitely be back," he said, waving as he ran (or more bounce) out of the door.

_Hmm. Probably shouldn't have given him caffeine._


	6. Headlines

_Hey guys, the sequel to "You're a What?", "Pink Toads and Lavender Goats" has now been posted!_

The next morning, a copy of the Daily Prophet was forwarded to Hannah by her university roommate, a witch that now worked as an economist for a major bank. There were so many major headlines that day that, rather than having just one front page, the Prophet was cycling through five.

**You Know Who Dies After Bringing House Down During Major Temper Tantrum**

Aurors find only legs sticking out from beneath house

**Lucius Malfoy Found Dead in Riddle Manner With You Know Who**

Rumored connections to You Know Who no longer rumor

**Cornelius Fudge Arrested for Attempted Use of Unforgiveable**

Powerful witch makes arrest possible with use of unknown _Kawfepawt_ spell

**Prophecy Involving You Know Who and Boy-Who-Lived Explodes in Department of Mysteries**

DoM head suggests prophecies no longer be kept in glass balls due to numerous flying-glass injuries

**Boy-Who-Lived to Leave Wizarding World**

Announces intention to study at the London School of Economics

Hannah smiled and put the paper out of sight before heading to another day at the coffee shop.

_And that, my friends, is how one person in one day can change the world._


	7. Surprise One Last Chapter

_A/N: Having received many reviews about my poor French translation of the name Voldemort, I am concluding this debate right here in a special update for you diehard "You're a What fans?" Although attached to "You're a What?" Pink Toads does come between this chapter and Chapter 6 "Headlines". Also, in response to some reviews I have gotten implying that I am not a serious author, I would direct readers to my upcoming Doctor Who story "Out of Sequence" and my previously posted "Christmas Bear" series. As I stated when I first wrote this story, this was supposed to be a crack fic posted for the enjoyment and relaxation of stressed out or depressed readers who don't have the energy to devote to a longer, "serious-er" fic. If it comforts you, think of these stories as some bizarre dream Harry had one night. Writing funny crazy fictions does not mean that we are not seriously dedicated to our writing—this story also originally started out as an attempt to write a more dialogue based story than those I had written previously. Sometimes, even when we're practicing for what we dream might someday be a career, we just need to let down our hair and have fun._

_Anyway, for all of you wonderful, kind reviewers who haven't intentionally or unintentionally gotten on my bad side lately, I am sorry for the long "speech". For those of you that unintentionally got me mad, and never intended to hurt my feelings, I'm sorry. I've been extremely prickly lately, even with people who aren't just anonymous screen names to me. But on a happier note, here is your surprise chapter of "You're a What?"_

Hannah was very proud of herself. She had just finished chalking up a new drink on her menu: the "Vol-de-Mort". Next to it was her description—_Flee from Death (or sleep!) with this unique mix of coffee, chai, chocolate, and mint. _It was a good description and bound to appeal to her more…eclectic… customers. The sound of a bell ringing drew her attention from the board to the front of the shop where a student from the local university (as evidenced by the heavy bag of books) was making her way to the counter.

"Excuse me, miss" she said with a clear French accent, "could I have a hot chocolate please?"

"Of course," Hannah replied, grabbing the tin of cocoa powder off the counter where she had left it. "One moment."

The girl waited patiently, pushing long brown hair out of the way as she studied the menu. She fidgeted uncomfortably as though she had something to say, but wasn't quite sure how to say it.

"Can I get you anything else?" Hannah asked, noting the girl's discomfort when she looked up from pouring the milk.

"No, it's just…your menu is wrong," the girl blurted it out in a rush as though she was afraid that she wouldn't get it out if she didn't get it out quickly.

"What do you mean?" Hannah asked, craning her head back to look at the menu.

"_Vol de mort_ means flight of death, not flee from death," she explained hesitantly.

"Oh is that all?" Hannah asked as she set the completed hot chocolate in front of the girl. "I'll see what I can do about that." The girl smiled shyly at her before picking up her drink and walking back out the door. Hannah spun around to face the menu, disappointed in being caught in a poor translation. She brightened up though as an alternative came to mind. Soon the board read _Vol de Mort—This mix of coffee, chai, chocolate, and mint will be a flight of death to any sleepiness you might feel! _ She turned back to the counter and continued her crossword puzzle as she waited for the next rush of customers.

The new translation didn't change a thing. _Voldemort_ was still a stupid name for a villain—and that wasn't likely to change anytime soon.

_The chapter regarding Voldemort's name will remain unchanged as it is still funny—even with a wrong translation!_


End file.
